The Risen

by David Anthony Durham

  Spartacus finally arrives, Astera with him. Sura doesn’t mind that he is Astera’s as much as she once did, not after the night when he was Zagreus. She is glad of that, because now she knows that—though he is a rare man, perfect in so many ways—he doesn’t fit inside her as perfectly as Kastor does. Spartacus lifts his arms and offers an embrace. Philon rises and receives it. “Medicus, you look well,” he says. “The pirates let you free, did they?”

  “They did,” Philon says. “I had my doubts, but they were true to their word.”

  Spartacus lets go enough to draw back, but he keeps a grip on both of the Greek’s forearms. “You didn’t talk them to death?”

  “Not to death. But when they threatened to hold me for ransom, I recited poetry. So they let me go.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.” He turns to the dark-haired man. He puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “Bolmios, you look more the pirate than when I last saw you. I didn’t think that possible.”

  The man looks down at himself. “I am what I am. Why hide it?”

  “Just so. And Kastor? Where is he?”

  Again, in the moments after his name is said and before Philon responds, Sura’s body reacts by shooting nervous energy through her.

  Philon shakes his head. “I’m sorry to say it, but he’s not of this world anymore. Dead, killed by—”

  The others have begun to exclaim and deny, but Sura cuts through them and interrupts. “Dead?”

  Everyone turns and looks at her. Philon frowns as if he doesn’t know her, then seems to remember and nods. When he continues, he’s speaking to the men again. “It was a confusion. Romans hunted us. They came to where we were staying. We escaped, but barely. We thought the pirates had betrayed us.”

  “Did they?” Spartacus asks, glancing at Bolmios.

  “Never,” the pirate says.

  “No, it was somebody else. Many heard me talk, and the word was spreading. It’s my own fault. We should’ve fled sooner. But I wished to plant seeds in Syracuse.”

  “Syracuse?” Spartacus asks. “Too busy a place. You weren’t to go there unless you had to.”

  “I know,” Philon says, looking uncomfortable to admit it, “but we stopped in. It was to be brief, and I had acquaintances there. I thought we’d be safe. We weren’t. I barely escaped. Kastor didn’t. He died in difficulty. I don’t like to think about it.”

  Spartacus turns his head to one side and coughs into his fist. When he’s done, he holds the fist clenched, as if he’s captured the coughs there and is crushing them. “What took his life?”

  “An arrow.”

  “That’s a lie,” Sura hears herself say. She’s on her feet somehow, though she didn’t notice rising. Again, everyone looks at her. She ignores them and focuses on Philon. “An arrow couldn’t kill Kastor! Kastor? Don’t be foolish. An arrow is nothing.” She makes this clear by pretending to snap one. She wants him to see how absurd the idea sounds. “Why are you lying? What happened to him really?” The words come out of her before she knows she means to say them. But she does mean them. He must be lying.

  “Arrows kill,” Philon says. “This one went through his lung.”

  “No.”

  “A broad head. It did much damage.”

  “A arrow could not kill Kastor!” She feels like smacking him for lying.

  Spartacus has let the Greek go. He intercepts her as she strides toward him. “I’m sorry, sister. This news is grief to us all. Philon bears only the message, not the blame for it.”

  Bolmios, looking puzzled by her, says, “Woman, what he says is true. A most unfortunate arrow. It took a great man.”

  When Sura curses the pirate in Thracian, Spartacus holds her back with one of his arms. He says, “Cerzula, come, take her. Speak to her.”

  “It’s not true!” Sura shouts. “There are things he’s not telling. I am sure of it. Make him tell the whole truth.”

  Spartacus looks over his shoulder, asking Philon if he’d like to respond. The Greek returns Sura’s gaze. She sees pieces of the truth there in his mind. He’s juggling them, she thinks. He’s juggling truths and lies, deciding which to offer. He chooses.

  “There’s nothing more to tell.”

  Sura lunges for him, wanting to rip out his eyes for lying.

  —

  That lunge got her no farther than Spartacus’s arm. She threw her weight against it as she clawed to get at Philon. The Greek watched her with a look of pity that just made her angrier. At a sign from Spartacus, Skaris took her by the waist and dragged her away from him, calling to the other women to take her. Only when they began to did Sura realize what was happening. She stopped shouting and with a lowered voice asked to stay, saying that she only wanted to listen and would cause no more disruption.

  “Sit quietly, then,” Spartacus said. “If you don’t, you must go.”

  That’s why she sits now on the other side of the fire, with Epta on one side of her and Cerzula on the other, both of them ready to pounce, it seems, if she makes any sudden movement. She waits to hear more about Kastor, but Spartacus turns the conversation away from him. Doesn’t he want to know more? Does he think so little of him? He’s what matters, but instead they speak about the cities and towns Philon visited, the groups he spoke to, and how they received Spartacus’s message to them. They had ears for his pledges, Philon says. As yet the Risen are a distant notion to them, but many, many watch what they do and wish them success.

  Sura listens, but only because she wants to hear him say something that matters to her. She still doesn’t believe the Greek. Kastor can’t be dead. There’s no proof of it. Just words. Philon makes words come out of his mouth, and she’s supposed to accept them? Words don’t make a thing true. Kastor fought in Galatia and did not die. He fought in the arena and did not die. He fought in battle after battle since they’d become the Risen. Kastor, she tells herself, was too much a man to be killed by an arrow that she could break over her knee.

  There are other possibilities. They scroll through her mind, mixing with the impossible thought of his death to make an even greater confusion in her head. Perhaps they left Kastor someplace, betrayed him for a reason Philon won’t now acknowledge. Maybe they sold him to the Romans and have come back to get yet others to sell. Pirates are slavers with no limit to their greed and cruelty. Philon is a Greek, not a warrior or a real man, never truly one of them; who knows what treachery he’s capable of? Maybe, right now, Kastor is again in the arena, fighting for his life. Maybe—and this, in some ways, cuts her more than the others—Kastor took flight of his own choosing.

  Spartacus should be probing the two men to find the real truth. Instead, they talk of some Roman named Verres who governs Sicily and who is a thief who robs the people under his protection. They talk of the Greek cities there that chafe at Roman rule, of how they’ve always been played as pieces on a game board designed by greater powers. They talk of the currents in the narrow sea between the tip of Italy and Sicily’s shores. So narrow one can stand at the water’s edge and see the island rising out of the slate-dark sea, just there, near enough to touch. Strong currents, but so, so near. They seem to have forgotten Kastor entirely. Either that, or they will no longer discuss him within her hearing.

  Where is he really? Right now, is he dead and gone? It’s happened to so many others. It happens to everyone eventually, but she can’t believe it of Kastor. She and he had begun a story that isn’t finished yet. The whole time he’s been gone, she’s been anticipating his return. Part of her has been paused, waiting to move forward again with him. She shakes the thought away. She blinks her eyes, ignores Cerzula and Epta, and focuses on the men. The Roman is talking.

  “The more we talk about Sicily,” Baebia says, “the more I see its vulnerability. Verres has no army. Not as such. He has soldiers, yes, but they’re stationed in small garrisons all around the island. They’re there to keep the lid pressed down on the people as Verres steals from them. That’s not an army. Yes, I see it
now. We could take Sicily. Whole cities, Spartacus, as you want. Food and grain in abundance. Slaves to rise. But not just them. I think you stand a better chance of winning over municipalities on that island than any place on the mainland. We wouldn’t even need our entire force to do it.”

  When did he become an equal voice with the others? Sura wonders. She’s never liked this one. Never trusted him. All this talk of we, it’s strange coming from a mouth that speaks Latin with a Roman accent.

  Gaidres says, “How many would it take?”

  “An invasion force of a few thousand,” Baebia says. “Four, perhaps. Maybe less.”

  The pirate shakes his head. “That’s too many for my ships to shuttle. Over time, of course, but I have only so many ships to call on at once. Halve the number, and perhaps it could be done.”

  Spartacus has a look on his face he’s not had for some time. His eyes are still, but there’s an energy to them, as if they were watching things unfold in some place other than here. “Imagine if we send two thousand to stir Sicily into rebellion. Capture cities, take the island. But we leave the bulk of the army here in Italy, which means the Romans will do what in response?”

  “In terms of helping Sicily?” Baebia asks. “Nothing with too much vigor. Crassus will not leave Rome undefended. The bulk of the army will stay where the threat to Rome is greatest. Crassus will want to defeat you, Spartacus, and to do it himself. Probably he would defend Rome and push for someone else to go to Sicily’s aid. He’d see it, I think, as a way to direct Pompey away from you.”

  “They would have to be good men,” Skaris says, “these two thousand.”

  “They will be,” Spartacus says. “You’ll pick them yourself.”

  So things are being decided. They turn to negotiating with the pirate. Everything is being decided, but there’s nothing more on Kastor. Him, they’ve forgotten about. Only she remembers.

  —

  Eventually, Cerzula leads Sura away, arms wrapped around her shoulders and head leaning against hers. She makes soothing sounds that are not exactly words. Sometimes she says, “I know. I know.” But what does she know? She has Gaidres. She has his scarred abdomen to touch, and his bearded face to brush against her cheek.

  Epta embraces her and says, “I’m so sorry for this.” She swears that she shares her grief and that Kastor was a rare man who will be loved in the next world. But what does she know of it? She has Drenis, with his lips that seem drawn for a woman’s face. She has Deopus, who is helpless without her, the tiny traitor that sucks her breast.

  Later, when the others gather to drink and to tell stories of Kastor late into the night, Sura leaves them and goes to her tent. Laelia brings her tea and presses it into her hands. When she turns away, Sura pours it out. This girl, who has Astera’s love, she knows nothing at all.

  Astera doesn’t come to her until late in the night, after the others have fallen into drunken, grieving stupors. She slips under the blanket and presses close to her, like a lover. “You can never know what the goddess will give you or take away from you,” she whispers. “She does both. Believe me. I know this.”

  “To me she never gives,” Sura says. “She just holds things before me so that I want them, and then she denies me. Always that’s how it is. Why? Sister, why can I never be happy?”

  “Happy?” Astera says the word through a smile. Sura isn’t looking at her, but she hears the smile in the question and the faint expulsion of air that follows it. “We are not made to be happy, Sura. We’re made for misery. You know that. We can walk haunted by tragedy all the days of our lives, but how many of us ever walk content for any more than fleeting moments? None. If ever you are happy, know that you are blessed beyond all others. In that moment you are the most beloved on earth. The goddess, if you are happy, is looking at you. Do not expect it, though, and know that no matter what, it will not last. More quickly than it’s given to you, it will be taken away. Believe me. I know this. Listen…”

  She talks of when she lived high in the Rhodopes, in the mountains of the clouds, with the wolves that call down Kotys. There she had a man she loved and a child. She lost them, killed by the Romans. Sura didn’t know this about her. Astera rarely speaks of her life before Capua. When she does, it is only in reference to serving the goddess. This is different. She was happy once, and it was taken away.

  “Here is what you do,” Astera says. “Take the hurt and eat it. Take the anger, consume it. If you grieve, make a meal of the grief, and have it feed you. Do that, and you will be a stronger Sura than before. That, more than anything, the goddess admires. That, I tell you, is why she gives us grief, to see if we are strong enough to eat it. Strength grown out of grief, Sura, is a more lasting thing than happiness.”

  When Astera says it like that, Sura wants it. Grief. If it will make her stronger. She will accept that Kastor died because of the thin sliver of some arrow. She will eat the misery of that and wish for more, if it will make her stronger. Thinking that, she worries that she doesn’t own enough misery yet. She needs more, not less. As much as she wants Kastor, she knows the grief of his death is not enough. The hurt is insufficient. The anger not nearly as brilliantly hot as it could be.

  Sura doesn’t push Astera away, as she would the others. Her body is warm against hers, and already she dreads the moment when it’s going to end. She lies there, awake through the long night. She listens to the rhythm of Astera’s breathing. In the solitude it provides, she sorts through the whirl of conflicting emotions inside her. She acknowledges that she loves those close to her. She truly does. Astera and Cerzula, Epta and Laelia. And of course, Spartacus. None of them are her kin, but she has no kin. And she doesn’t have Kastor anymore. Only those five, which is why she loves them more than she has loved anyone. She wants the best for them that this life can offer. That’s true, she tells herself. If anybody could see inside her, they would know the depth of her feeling for each of them.

  She also acknowledges that, woven in a tight weave with the fibers of that love, there are other threads. The darker ones that curdle in her during moments both small and large. When she sees Cerzula, though she is starting to gray, being smiled upon by Gaidres. When Epta, touching Drenis at the knee, laughs at something Deopus has done. When Laelia speaks privately with Astera, the two of them with their heads close together. When Astera sweeps into places Sura herself wishes to be, like under Spartacus’s arm, supporting him after he fought so magnificently against Oenomaus. In those moments, she hates them all.

  Love and hate. Lying there, she sees a way that—though they seem like opposites—she can address both. A pure, perfect way.

  —

  Nightshade. The Bright-Eyed Lady. One must be careful with it. A few drops only, and that mixed with water. That’s what Astera taught her to do when diluting the tincture for ceremonies in which she met with Kotys. Any more than a few drops, and Kotys wouldn’t just allow a mortal to see her, she would frighten them with the terror of her presence, then devour them.

  The Bright-Eyed Lady is the perfect answer. After she decides upon it, Sura knows what she is going to do, the best way to show her love, to give in to her hatred, and to drench herself in the misery that will make her powerful. All these at once. She just needs the right opportunity. She gets it on the night before they begin to march south, toward the farthest tip of Italy.

  Astera announces that they will call down the moon once again. Spartacus will be there as well, for the goddess needs to see him herself, to bless him so that even now he will find the way to destroy Rome. He needs to feel the fury and power of her, to be frightened again into his strength, away from mourning and disappointment. It’s the only way to know that the goddess will continue to bless him and that this move on Sicily pleases her. So, Astera says, she will drink of the Bright-Eyed Lady. The nightshade will open her eyes and the goddess will come to them and speak through her.

  It falls to Sura to prepare the Bright-Eyed Lady that she’s to carry up the knoll for the
ceremony. She tips the vial with the tincture and pours it full and pure into the wooden bowl. She adds no water, just the nightshade. In her tent, in the dim light of a single lamp, she stares for a long time at the liquid in the bowl. Some moments it looks like clear water in which herbs float benignly. Others, it’s as black as night, full of unseen menace. It’s both, which seems right to her.

  This bowl she will offer to Astera, who will drink from her preparation as she has many times before. She won’t question her now any more than she did before. If Astera asks why her hands shake, she will say she trembles at the nearness of the goddess. Who can doubt that? Astera won’t. She’ll drink, the same as she has done before. But this time Kotys will reach out and, before their eyes, take her. They’ll all see it. The goddess will claim and take her. Won’t that be a blessing to Astera? She who knows as well as any that life is misery. Isn’t she now living closer to happiness than she’ll ever achieve again? Now she has the goddess who has given her power and brought so many to follow. Now she has Spartacus beside her. It’s a good time for her to leave life, when they have won so much and yet believe they will win even more. Isn’t that the time to go, before fortune turns and all of it is destroyed? To end her is an act of kindness.

  And it’s more than that. It’s an act of vengeance as well, retribution for all the many ways Astera has taken things for herself and denied them to Sura. All the times that Sura looked to her, obeyed her, trusted in her. How foolish she has been to love and fear her so. She sees now that Astera has nothing that can’t be taken from her. Why didn’t she always know this? No matter. She knows it now.

  So, an act of love. One of hatred. And after that will come the grief. Watching Astera die and knowing that she caused it will be a devastating misery. She’ll have so much grief to feed on. As grief is power, she will have power unending, enough for Spartacus to see it, for the others to see it, enough to step in and become a priestess of Kotys.